Cold Turkey
by Basser
Summary: THoB's 'going cold turkey' scene from Sherlock's point of view. Character motivation study.


**A/N: **_So up to now I've been trying to go through the episodes roughly in order, but someone suggested doing this scene and I couldn't help myself, it just sounded too fun._

_I apologise in advance if anything gets incomprehensible - for some reason I decided it would be terribly clever and realistic of me if I were to go cold turkey myself before writing the first draft. (It has now been a day and a half since I've had a cig, by the way, and I am far less than pleased about it.) Hopefully this turned out readable despite the lack of nicotine swimming around in my brain._

* * *

Shower to wash the pig blood off, fine. He'd almost rather have continued to wander around the city covered in the stuff - interesting to watch peoples' reactions - but John insists so Sherlock reluctantly does as he's told.

Soon enough he's back to looking respectable _(ugh how dull)_. Even cleans the end of the harpoon! Very responsible today. But that only took all of five minutes so now he's bored again. Bored bored bored _bored _good fucking _christ_ is there nothing at all do bloody _do!?_

Pacing back and forth, harpoon in hand because it's somewhat interesting to look at the tiny patterns in the wood and of course there's always the chance of it going off accidentally and _wouldn't that be exciting?_ Can't do it on purpose though, no, then he'd know about it beforehand and things you know about are never quite as fun as random events and _good god is there nothing at all going on!?_

In answer to his question John lists off a load of boring tripe from the news - military coup in Uganda, who cares, another photo of… _oh for the love of-_ damn that stupid hat and whoever made it.

Whatever, _boring uninteresting pointless _just ignore it go back to pacing back and forth to and fro across the hardwood occasional step on carpeting not random enough too expected so it fades into mundane _argh_ the wallpaper's peeling the slightest bit in the corner right _there_ and the picture frame map of the British Isles crooked off-centre but only because he knows it annoys Mycroft when was the last time he looked at that sheet music what if the suspect in Lestrade's case last month hadn't actually been the killer of course he _was_ but what if he hadn't been who else could have been a suspect no no no this is a stupid line of thought no one cares John flips another page of his newspaper _cabinet reshuffle_ who honestly gives a damn _nothing of importance_ another million thoughts blurring into a chaotic mess and _OH GOD _make it _stop!_

Slams the harpoon down, but it fails to go off _(it won't, of course it won't he's engaged the safety mechanism but wouldn't it be interesting if it failed?)_ and the vague burst of disappointment just makes everything that much more _irritating. _Ugh, no. No no no sod this sod _everything_ he gives up. This whole stupid bloody plan was _John's _idea anyway - whinging about health risks and _breathing _and why on earth had Sherlock even agreed in the first place? As if he gives a toss about his health. Just caved to John's badgering like usual. And since this is all John's fault in the first place it should really be _him_ who goes and obtains whatever might be available, _right bloody now_ because honestly he needs _something._

But _damn it_, that's right, they've paid off every shop and dealer in the area. No cigarettes, no cocaine, not even _speed_ (which despite its tendency to give him heart palpitations he'd gladly accept at the moment - who gives a shit about one's heart after all when their _brain_ is ready to explode!?) And god who the hell came up with _that_ stupid ide- oh right. He did.

_ARGH _but who cares anyway dismiss that move on to something else such as the fact that there _has to be some sort of drug around here somewhere. _A stray cigarette or a nicotine patch, maybe a phial of something stronger. With all the substances he's experimented with it's nigh impossible there won't be a scrap of _something_ left. Flips folders out of the way - _flinging them_, because the dramatic movements bring a spike of adrenaline. Only a fleeting burst, doesn't help much, but still it's a vestige of stimulation. And fuck there's nothing there and not in the box or the shelf or under papers and _this is all John's fault he's got a stash somewhere hiding them for emergencies tell me where they are!_

_Please!_

Pleasepleaseplease_please_ just one drag, one pill or hit or _anything_ because he honestly can't deal with this it's too many details registering all at once all echoing hollow into the utter, _utter_ stillness of _nothing going on._ There's no focus point so instead _everything_ becomes a focus point and the human brain simply wasn't _built _for this! Not even his!

_You're doing really well, don't give up now._

John sounds exasperated - probably because this is the third time they've been through this conversation in less than two days and the doctor's getting sick of it. Well quite frankly _Sherlock's _getting sick of it too, which is why it would really be better for everyone if they'd just let him go back to his usual routine of chemically-assisted brainwork but _nooo_ it's got to be all down to his _health._

Hang his health! He's managed to survive this long without giving a damn! And anyway what's the difference if he gets lung cancer or dies of an aneurysm? One less sociopathic freak of nature for the world to deal with - hell they'd probably _celebrate_ down at the Yard. Better to live a shortened blip of an existence than to deal with this constant neverending buzz of thoughts and details and knowledge and _argh, just shut it off!_

John doesn't understand, refuses to sympathise. So Sherlock falls back on the only thing he can think to try and acts _normal._

Careful arrangement of facial muscles, ensure the correct expression of contrite humble _pleading_ because fuck his dignity at the moment there's more important things at stake.

_Please._

John is unimpressed. Damn it!

Alright well, on to bribery then - next week's lottery numbers? He's sure he could crack the algorithm or whatever they use, but John's not interested in that either _(knew he wouldn't be, worth a try anyway.) _Argh _fine _if John's going to persist in being unhelpful... _there!_ By the fireplace something's been moved recently, could be an old stash- oh, _his secret supply! _He literally _flings himself_ toward it.

Mrs Hudson comes in as he's searching, she'd know what they've done with it _tell me where it is_ but she just plays stupid. _How about a nice cuppa? _No! No no _no_ caffeine does _nothing! _Why don't they seem to _understand!? _He needs something _stronger! _

_Seven percent stronger..._ he hears himself mumble. Flashes of memory - snow, frosted pristine mirrored ice, the chilled apathy and effortless poise... all he wants is a _single bloody cigarette_ but if they won't let him then _by fucking god_ he'll quite happily go straight back to the harder substances. It'd serve them all right for trying to control his decisions anyway. Glances over his shoulder with a glare and _oh, look at all that! Details, facts... Mrs Hudson you silly woman, think I wouldn't notice?_

Points the harpoon at her. (For drama's sake mostly, because the safety's still on - but there's a spark of something horrible in his brain wondering just what might happen if it went off; blood splattering the windows, all over John's chair, the death would be slow and painful... she might be saved but only with quick intervention. He doesn't, _absolutely doesn't_ want anything to happen to her but _god there's nothing at all going on! _so the dark thoughts rise up unbidden and there's little he can do about it.) Rattles off where she's been, who she's been with, why and how and all the things she thinks no one will notice _but he always notices_ and maybe if he just says something terrible and rude, gives them a glimpse into his mental space right now they'll _understand._

It's the only way he can think of to show them that he can't just turn this off, can't stop knowing about all the things everything _everywhere_ all their little secrets and sordid love lives. It's _always always always _happening. Drugs are the only way to quiet the cascade of details facts and ideas that chase constantly screaming round his head. Drugs will make this _stop._

But she only gets upset and runs out. John's angry now too, and _of course_ it's all Sherlock's fault. _He's_ the one in the wrong - for pointing out things they could have all seen if only they had the slightest clue what this is like. It's not _their doing. _No, no, certainly not. Even though this is only happening because they've _taken away his bloody drugs! _

He curls up in his armchair and rocks back and forth a few times like a child, because while he'd quite like to be able to sit quietly like a sane person staying still is _not an option _right now_. _John's lecturing him. _Go after her and apologise._

_Apologise!? _For what? For doing _exactly what they should all have been expecting him to do!? _Go fuck yourself!

_God_, bloody John and his placid empty little mind. Doesn't have the slightest _fucking _clue what any of this is like, what the forced dormancy is doing to Sherlock's brain - tearing itself to pieces inside his skull. He tries to explain regardless, metaphors similies but none of them quite right, everything sounding so stupid and _god I need a case!_

John's apparently had enough - he snaps and yells back about having just solved one.

_So!?_ That was _this morning!_ Hours and hours ago _(well, more like one or two but who the hell can be expected to keep track of time in this state)_ and that's an _eternity_ when every single second of every minute is filled with a million million racing thoughts. With a huff Sherlock flops down in his chair and fidgets like a madman. Movement helps, calms the sensations of tiny racing ants in his nerves though it does unfortunately make him look rather insane. Not that he cares right now. _God_ need a case, need something to think about _when's the next one!?_

The only thing on the website is an utterly ridiculous email from a little girl. Can he _please please please_ find Bluebell? _A rabbit, John! _Who the _hell_ honestly expects a homicide detective to go chasing after rabbits!? Do people teach their children _anything _these days? Or are their dimwitted parents _actively creating morons?_ He drops into sarcasm; oh yes let's phone Lestrade get the bloody _police _on the case this is obviously a matter of national importance!

John, predictably, is utterly lost. _Are you serious?_

Sherlock turns back to him with a vicious scowl. _Is he seri-? _What the hell kind of question is that? _Yes_, John, _of course_ I'm serious. Let's call up the _bloody Yard_ and report a goddamned missing rabbit _you complete fucking idiot._

He stares his flatmate down for a second more, then delivers an ultimatum (mostly just to see what he'll do): report the rabbit... or Cluedo.

John reacts as if he's just suggested they murder the Prime Minister. _No no no we are never playing that again._

Why not, though...? Stupid game had actually been halfway amusing the last time, coming up with logical solutions for the utterly moronic little murder scenarios. True, no one else had seen the connections but that's hardly a surprise now is it? Perhaps if he got Mycroft to play... he'd certainly agree about the rules needing a proper overhaul. Maybe he could get the pompous git to rewrite them and then-

The doorbell cuts him off mid-sentence.

Single ring, maximum pressure just under the half-second... it's a _client._

_Oh thank god_.


End file.
